A Light at Baker Street
by taciturn-parasol
Summary: For John Watson three years have passed in silent decay. But what was once a desperate hope will soon become a shocking reality on the anniversary of the Fall.


**A Light at Baker Street**

He laughed. So high up and so close to not existing and he still managed to laugh.

John's heart raced as he stared up at him. He hoped that his words would somehow get him to think clearly and take a step back. But Sherlock always thought clearly. Always.

It was true that he was clever, brilliant and amazing, but John could only think of how fragile he was. How human he was. And that if he were to fall – if he were to _let_ him fall – Sherlock would never rise again.

He made a move to stop him, but Sherlock begged that he stayed. Right where he was. That's all he asked of him.

John listened to his words as best as he could, though his mind became clouded with the terrible thoughts and possibilities that could so easily become realities. All it would take would be one. Small. Step.

"It's my note."

Time seemed to slow between words then. In ways that John could not comprehend, the pain and agony and loneliness were about to flood back into his life and all at the hand of the man who had somehow kept them at bay with the act of simply existing. He couldn't. He wouldn't. A world without Sherlock Holmes would be…

John could not think of such a world.

There was a click in his ear. The call had ended.

Sherlock looked down at him with a face you see in trains, just as they begin to pull away from the platform, everything you know and everything you'll never see again.

John could only feel his heart turn to a blade in his chest. He begged a thousand times in his mind, but these pleas formed into a single word which echoed throughout the whole of this Earth.

"SHERLOCK!"

But then, there was a moment when things were as they should have been.

John found himself on the rooftop, staring at the back of the tall figure – the ends of his coat catching in the hands of the wind, which were so anxious to receive him.

Sherlock took no notice of him as he tossed his mobile aside. Then, with arms spread out like the battered black wings of Death's angel, he began to fall.

John's legs moved quickly, but his progress was slow. He seemed to stick to the very air around him, struggling against it as he made his way towards Sherlock.

With the full length of his arm, he reached out, feeling the strain of every fiber as he stretched as far as he could.

In his hands, he gripped a fistful of that wildly, whipping coat, his heart suddenly freed of its heaviness and anguish.

But then, it turned to stone, that little heart, when the coat was suddenly lifeless and empty in his hand. It only trembled in his hold as he moved closer to the rooftop's edge.

He was so far up and now he was down. Fallen. Never to rise.

People from all sides rushed over to the world's only consulting detective. At least, that's what he should have been remembered as. Not a fake. Not a fraud. But the greatest man he had ever known.

These strangers, these scavengers, swarmed the body, hungry from curiosity. Then, with their probing hands bloodied from the detective's dark head, they looked up. Looked up and saw the man with his empty coat. Looked up and saw the man that Sherlock Holmes slip away.

"Goodbye, John."

John woke up with a start, his hand gripping a fistful of bed sheet. A familiar pain struck his leg till it felt solid with aching. His chest heaved with ragged breaths and on his face was the dew that slowly formed in his troubled sleep. But as he sat up in the darkness of his room, the clear bead that trailed down past his nose before falling into the abyss, was not to be mistaken as anything else but a tear.

In this black solitude, only his agitated breath could be heard. The air whirled about in the emptiness of his chest. Then, he choked, unable to push his pains back into their box.

As he began to silently weep into what remained of the night, the digital clock on his bedside was happy that a minute had passed and flicked in red, blocky numbers to 2:22.

The Detective Inspector lounged habitually at his desk, two hastily-polished shoes sitting atop his unfinished paperwork. He stared blankly at his computer monitor, watching, but not caring, as the minutes passed.

The coffee in its paper cup went untouched, the steam growing thin and weak as the heat retreated from it. His fingers steepled on top of his stomach – had it not been for its gentle rise and fall, he would have been perfectly still. A statue in Scotland Yard.

Uninterrupted, he would have stared at that screen all day. His mind swam with thoughts as he gazed at the date tucked away in the corner of the screen. But after a while, the screen turned black with the crackle of static. And as though it were meant for that precise moment, Donovan's curls bounced around the corner.

"Sir, they're ready for you."

Lestrade lingered in his reverie a moment longer before forfeiting his mind to reality. With a sigh, he looked up at Donovan's patient expression with empty eyes.

"I'll be right behind you." he told her, his voice groggy from the usual lack of sleep.

With a toss of her curls, she was gone as quickly as she had come.

He pulled his feet down from the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to clear his troubled mind. He ventured to take a sip of his coffee, only to set it back down again with a grimace. Then, with some difficulty, he stood up and stretched, trying with little success to flatten out the wrinkles in his formerly-pressed shirt. He reached behind his chair and slipped into his jacket, not giving much thought to fixing his hair. A few strands hung limply over his creased brow and bounced with every heavy step he took down the hall and to the press room.

There was that customary burst of sound as he filed into the room with Donovan, Anderson and a few others. Questions hitting him thunderously. He did what he could to quiet the restless journalist as he made his way to his seat. And so, the conference began.

It went smoothly, without much pause. The questions weren't too pressing and the answers none too specific, but enough to satisfy the press's eager notebooks and famished recorders. That was until the conference was coming to a close.

A slender arm shot up into the air, a pen clasped within the hold of a finely manicured hand. Lestrade's eyes caught sight of it and his gaze trailed down the arm to the expectant, young face of an amateur journalist. Her face was smooth and round, her eyes hopeful as she bit down on her full lip.

"Yes, you in the back." said Lestrade, tiredly.

He knew that it was best to give this type the answers they wanted. Otherwise, they'd weave their way through the crowd for that one final word as you tried to make your escape.

A look of triumph washed over her and she beamed with a brilliance that contrasted greatly with the overall grayness of the room.

"Um, yes, well, as you know, today marks the anniversary of Sherlock Holmes's death. Can you confirm that the recent sightings are genuine, Detective Inspector?"

There was a stillness in the room. The question was petrifying, but the journalists saw no reason in putting their pens away. Though, just as easily baffled by the question as Lestrade was, they watched intently, waiting for the answer.

Lestrade felt his heart had stopped for a moment, then started up once more. He calmly leaned forward. And after moistening his lips, had them nearly pressed to the microphone as he said, "No, whatever sightings there have been have clearly been the work of some sort of impersonator."

The young journalist nodded, looking somewhat defeated. The others could not help but feel a twinge of disappointment as well. But a question like that during a press conference could, perhaps, prove to be of some value. Spark some inspiration and draw in a few readers.

"If there aren't any more questions, we'd like to conclude this press conference." Donovan said quickly, knowing full well of what chaos the name Sherlock Holmes brought about.

The journalists were without much vigor today and decided to gather their things and head out.

That is, until, a dreadfully seductive sigh echoed through the room. All eyes turned toward Anderson, who had just realized the noise had come from his pocket. His face grew red as he looked down at his trousers in horror.

Donovan pinned him with a look of both concern and budding jealousy.

"Was that your phone?" she hissed at him.

"Yes, but I –" he stammered.

"Why's it making that noise?" she demanded impatiently.

"I don't – I didn't –"

He was cut off once again as several phones beeped and buzzed, including Lestrade's.

It was all too familiar. He felt a chill rise up in him and clench his throat. Maybe it wasn't what he thought it to be. Perhaps, it was a terrible coincidence.

He, along with the press, opened the message they had all received. And there it was, in bold, striking letters – that, under any other circumstances, would seem ordinary – was a single word. _That_ word.

WRONG.

The eyes of the few veteran reporters met with a flame of childlike delight and wonder. And it only took a moment for the other eyes in the room to catch fire as well and look upon the Detective Inspector with brimming curiosity.

Lestrade did not meet their gaze. Instead, he turned to stone, his eyes planted firmly on the small screen of his mobile. His lips moved as though he were saying something, but no sound came. Nearly panicked, he stowed the phone away into his pocket.

He stumbled over his words helplessly as he tried to think of a rational explanation to all this or, at least, one rational enough to satisfy the press.

"Hmm, um, well, that concludes today's –"

A hand shot up again. "It says 'wrong'."

"Yes, I can see that, but I think it's best that no mind be paid to it." Lestrade managed in a firm tone. "Obviously, someone's playing some sort of trick."

Anderson's phone sighed again in rebuttal, signaling that another wave of messages was coming through. He cursed down at his pocket while Donovan's gaze pinned him like daggers. He fumbled with the settings, trying to silence the phone's provocative taunts.

Once again, the mass before them came alive with buzzes, beeps and the swift clicks of buttons as they opened the next message.

"'Wrong', again." said the young reporter, having no fear of being dreadfully obvious. She looked up at the Detective Inspector, stained with both innocence and ignorance. "What does it mean?"

"It means nothing." Lestrade told her with a sternness even _he_ wouldn't believe.

There had to be reason behind this. Good, solid reason as to why this was happening on_ this_ of all days.

"Where are the texts coming from?" one reporter demanded.

"Yes, how did they manage to get our numbers?"

"Sherlock Holmes was known to have done this before, was he not?"

Lestrade tried to answer with some effort. "Yes, but this isn't the work of Sherlock Holmes. Like I said, someone's playing a trick."

"And they said you were wrong." a reporter pointed out.

"Sir, if this is Sherlock Holmes, how did he manage–"

"It isn't Sherlock Holmes." Lestrade shot at the last journalist. "Sherlock Holmes is dead."

There was that sigh, then, a smack followed by a cry of pain as Donovan's temper got the best of her. She stormed out of the room, followed by a baffled Anderson, who held his reddening cheek while trying to speak his piece.

Lestrade was left alone with the press, all of them being consumed by the tension that took up the cupboard space of the room. They waited for what seemed an eternity. Then, there came the chorus of automated sounds.

Thumbs had already been held at the ready to read what they already knew would be there. Wrong. They had all been wrong. Three years had passed with dwindling hope and excitement and now, in this press room, the spark had been cast. Nothing was going to be the same again.

There was but one more alert that sounded in that press room and it came from the phone of Detective Inspector Lestrade. With a shaking hand and a paling face, he opened the message only he had received. His breath caching in his throat and his mind whirled from all the questions, the confusion and indescribable feeling of relief in being wrong.

You'll know where to find me.

-SH

The episode in the press room at Scotland Yard was infectious. There wasn't a single news channel that didn't mention it. It was on the radio, popping up on various sites and the subject of most of the day's coffeehouse banter. Everyone knew now. Everyone but Dr. John Watson.

He had become a recluse in the past three years. He went without a phone, a television or a laptop. He had no need for them. There was no one to talk to. There had been more "Fake Genius" coverages than he could stand. And without Sherlock, there was nothing to write about. Nothing happened to him anymore. Nothing extraordinary or fantastic. Everything was just as it was and nothing else.

His morning routine carried out as it always did. He heaved himself up out of bed, clutching onto his cane and limped toward the bathroom. There he would brush his teeth, carve a hallway-decent shave and look at a mirror that was better off being empty.

His eyes were tired, his face worn. He had aged. It was in his walk, the way he spoke and in the strands of gray sprouting like wires at all angles of his shaggy hair. His dress hadn't changed, though, his pockets were empty now. His desk drawer was where he laid his trusty pistol to rest.

He'd make his way to the kitchen next, which seemed the least empty place in his house. There was a mug, a tall glass for water and short one for drinks. There was a fork, a spoon, two knives – one for jam and butter, the other for everything else. Then there was a single plate, a pot, a pan and a cutting board. And all of these sat in their lonesome in their designated places of the kitchen. He made himself a cup of tea, opening the barren fridge for a slim carton of milk. After replacing it, he would journey back over to his bed, spread the sheets neatly back into place and sit at the edge of it, straight-backed as he sipped with a measured patience.

On occasion, he would clear his throat or let out a sigh, but other than that, all was quiet in the flat.

He was just washing out his mug when he looked over at the clock sitting atop the counter. He thought back to last night. Today was that day. He had nearly forgotten.

Setting the mug on top of a rag to dry, he became still as thoughts flooded into his mind. Memories rushed back, twisting and contorting, wrapping themselves around him only to tighten and gag him where he stood. He closed his eyes to the sounds of gunshots, the clapping of shoes against wet pavement, to the vision of a manic spider's smile and finally a fall. And then, they were gone, retreating to the back of his mind where they took their stay. But he always knew they were there. They'd always be there.

He'd have to change his plans for the day – sitting about the flat and staring at the walls. But he was sure the walls would understand. There were things which had to be done and not for any important reasons, just a way of tradition.

So, he grabbed his coat and headed out, fumbling with his keys to lock the door – after being inside for so long, he lacked in the skill to work such mechanisms.

From the third floor, he made his way down the stairwell to avoid whatever people might be taking the lift.

The sound of one heavy foot shuffling after the other echoed down the white funnel.

When he reached the lobby of his complex, he lingered in front of the door. With a deep breath, he laid a damp palm on the handle after his hand clenched and unclenched and his fingers jigged. He gave it a push, a gust of cool air hitting his face and the clatter of the city flooding into the lobby along with it.

The sun was falling behind the city's gray towers, giving a bleak sheen to the dying day's air. He adjusted his coat and made his way down the sidewalk to begin his annual wander around the streets of London.

It was a tradition he had decided on when the first year had passed. When he found it extremely difficult to visit Sherlock's grave. The headstone and its blackness – smooth and blank, save that one name. There was no date, no description. John only knew the name and the man and nothing of the past that came with it. He'd always hate the way it left him in wonder, the way it reflected his world back at him. A reminder of how empty it was.

So, he walked about the city, visiting familiar places, trying to remember that feeling that was lost now. Often, his mind would betray him, the pain in his leg somehow gone, and see the ends of a coat whipping around a dark corner or a slim, tall figure leaping across buildings. But he knew that it was nothing. If there were such a thing as miracles, one would have come by now. If there was a single clue, he would have found it in the hours he spent, pacing back and forth in front of St. Bart's.

This too, was one of the many stops he made during his rounds. He'd look up at the hospital for a good, long while before venturing across the street and over to the phone box nearby.

There, he stood under the light of a yellow bulb, surrounded by the cluster of letters, notes and scrawlings, plastered about every inch of the box. He found that most were addressed to him – condolences given by random strangers. All of them from someone who believed in Sherlock Holmes.

He would spend hours, reading every single one – some new, some old and fading, but all stained with a hope that the greatest detective that ever lived, died the same man. Some of the letters took longer than the others, but John patiently eyed every word, his expression becoming more wrought with sadness at the end of each one. But he kept on, dutifully reading, so that every stranger's word was heard. Then, when all was done, he'd pull a scrap of paper out of his pocket – usually a receipt or an appointment card from his psychiatrist's office and in twisted scrawl, write the immortal words: _I believe in Sherlock Holmes_.

He'd said it once, quite angrily, to a more than intrusive man with a camera. It had "a ring to it". Easy to remember. Impossible to forget. An undying truth.

When he had finished, he stepped back out into the world. The night air strung with a striking cool and the cars that passed by seemed to glare at him from their taillights' red, owl-eyes. "Go home." they said, now that night had fallen. "Go home. There's nothing for you out here, Doctor."

Perhaps, it was best to go home. There was no good reason behind this, no reward, only more sleepless nights and the revival of old horrors to lie in the dark beside him.

He decided to turn back, only to become hopelessly lost. He often took a cab, but never bothered knowing how to get to his flat. He tried to find landmarks of some sort – a familiar road that would act as a starting point for the journey back home. And so he did.

A few twist and turns and a pinch of disorientation and he found himself staring at the candlelight glowing in the window of Angelo's. He looked up at the street sign to find that it read, Northumberland Street. Even when he was lost, he was still finding his way back to old places.

With a sigh, he walked over and peeked into the window. Angelo was busy at work, going from table to table, placing tea candles here and there. There was a moment when the owner caught a glimpse of the doctor and smiled warmly at him as he waved a big mitt of a hand. John forced a smile and waved back, then stepped away from the window and continued to walk down the street.

It was late now, a little past midnight. The streets were beginning to grow quiet and pleasant for John. He enjoyed his solitude in the night air, feeling as though he were the only person in the world and that it was alright for once. He went on like this until it was fifteen past two. He didn't mind losing any sleep. He probably would have been awake this time of night anyways.

Then, there was a smallest of sounds. The softest of notes, which drifted into the silence.

With a grimace, John turned onto a street that he actually recognized, treading carefully down the damp road. He caught a glimpse of a wall to his right. A patch of it had been scrappily painted over with a different shade of white, but he could almost make out the silhouette of what had once been there in red and black paint. I.O.U.

The notes were suddenly familiar, the sound an old memory. He couldn't take another step forward. Such visions were not a rarity to him, but they were never this overwhelming. After taking a moment to close his eyes, he usually found his way back to reality. Tonight was different. The song played on.

"No, no, no." John muttered to himself, his eyes still tightly closed. "Stop this. Stop it right now."

His mind did not obey him. So, hesitantly, he opened his eyes once more and dared to take a step forward, then another and another until he was standing on Baker Street for the first time in three years.

He was gripped by a rush of angst. That was enough to have him lean so heavily on his cane, he would have fallen over. This was not a good place for him. He should turn back. But the music beckoned him and as he turned, he caught sight of something he hadn't expected, something unreal.

A light was on at the end of Baker Street.

Warm, golden light poured out of the window and into the street along with the gentle drift of a weeping violin.

John's legs seemed to carry him towards the light without his consent. The heels of his shoes and his cane tapped across the wet pavement with gaining speed.

It wasn't gone yet. The illusion hadn't vanished suddenly or faded away as he came closer to it. Instead, the music grew louder, the light becoming clearer. He stumbled for a moment, remembering his cane and trudged up to the door marked 221b.

He wasn't sure what to do. The last thing he wanted was to wake Mrs. Hudson in the middle of the night just because he was having an episode. But maybe, he wouldn't have to wake her. Maybe…

His hand clenched and unclenched, his fingers jigged again. In a single breath, he twisted the knob and he fell into the foyer. The sound of his feet was muted by the carpet and he tried to keep his rapid breaths low. That this felt so much like a nightmare was maddening, but he found himself closing the door, trapping himself inside.

He scanned the dark space, haunted by another bout of memories, clawing away at his mind. Mrs. Hudson's room was still. She would've noticed the door opening – if she were here at least.

Then who was it? Who was upstairs?

He swallowed and reached into his pocket, cursing under his breath to find it empty. He'd only have his cane to arm him. But that seemed all the more stimulating. With cane in hand, he used the other to grope his way upstairs. When he reached the top, his shadow was cast behind him from the light that had escaped through the door of their old flat. It had been left wide open as though he were expected.

John tried to keep his breathing even. His heartbeat sent tremors through his body. His face growing hot as adrenaline rushed through his veins. And when he stepped through the threshold, his breath was cut short. His heart stopped and so did the music.

The bow had halted at its end, just as it was about to make its decent. The slender hand, which held it, stayed a moment before lifting the bow away from the strings. The violin had been tucked beneath a softly curved jaw and now it hung at the player's side.

Standing tall and lean in front of the window was a man. Dark-haired and dressed in a finely-tailored suit. He set the violin down, but did not turn. Instead, he continued to stare out of the window.

John's cane had lowered as his arms grew weak and slipped through his trembling fingers. It bounced on its ends before settling to the ground with a rapid clatter. His vision was beginning to blur and in a panic, he began to stumble towards the figure before his legs gave out and it was lost to him forever.

The space between the doorway and the window seemed to stretch on into eternity. And just when he was within reach of the apparition, it turned and faced him.

A face of a friend long-lost. A face with eyes very much alive in their electric shade of green. A face that, upon meeting John's awed expression could not help but smile softly, amused. He put out a hand, holding John up by the elbow and laying a hand on his shoulder. But there was in his eyes a look of pity, brimming over with all that he saw in John's own face and eyes. He saw the product of his work. He had done well, but failed all the same. There was a longing in the man's eyes, a longing to be understood and forgiven, but perhaps there'd be time for that later. He needed only to be here now. To show John that he was real.

The doctor stared at him, paling at the touch of a man very much alive. His mind whirled viciously. There was nothing but this man and the overflowing sensation of relief and happiness that welled in his eyes as tears. He blinked them away quickly, fearing that his mind would betray him again, but the man stood before him, holding him in place and filling all the emptiness that had consumed him these past three years.

John Watson didn't believe in ghosts. For a while he didn't even believe in miracles. But if there was one thing in the world that he could bring himself to believe in, one thing that would never change, it was that _he believed in Sherlock Holmes_.

"Hello, John."


End file.
